


Moonstruck

by Tah the Trickster (TahTheTrickster), Xhuuya



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, F/F, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2019-10-13 04:33:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17481260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TahTheTrickster/pseuds/Tah%20the%20Trickster, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xhuuya/pseuds/Xhuuya
Summary: An ancient and destructive curse long lost to the sands of time threatens to tear through the gossamer barrier that separates it from the world of the living. Only equally ancient and powerful magics from beings far older than Runeterra itself stand the chance of fighting back the dark magic, but their wielders have been all but wiped out of history, falsely accused and scattered throughout the lands. The time to uncover century-old treason plots and rediscover the old magics is dwindling, and all the while the Black Mists keep rising and rising...





	1. Moonstruck

Diana always found it truly disappointing when lovely words meant cruel things.

Endless and exhausting decades under Solari tutelage had left her with an unpleasant list in her head of all the barbed taunts she'd heard before. Had they been only from her fellow initiates, Diana might've excused the hostility. Cruelty, she'd discovered long ago, was a learned behavior, and children loved little more than to demonstrate that which they been taught.

No, Diana found that in most cases it had been the elders of the Solari whose tongues cut most deeply, imprinted onto her subsconscious far more intently than even the symbol of the Lunari had been imprinted onto her forehead.

_ Lunacy, _ they'd spat with derision when she was found sneaking out to admire how the winter Moon cast pale snow to silver.  _ Reaching for the Moon, _ they'd snarled when she argued in her lessons, raring back at the condemnation of its gentle light.  _ Moonstruck _ had been the last term she'd heard before her Ascent, sneered to her as her hands were whipped under the noontime Sun in penance.

Diana had always considered herself a reasonably intelligent young woman. From context, she noted they used  _ moonstruck _ in much the way they tended to throw around the terms  _ deranged _ and  _ demented. _ Even then, it seemed to her particularly ugly to use such a lovely-sounding word thus. Now, particularly, she could feel the ever-shifting presence within her chest recoil as the memory flickered to the fore of her mind, and its vile usage seemed somehow deeply, deeply disrespectful.

So overwhelming was the presence's resulting flinch, Diana found herself speechless for a moment at being called such now, so far from the slopes of Targon.

“What, is that offensive? Just meant you seemed to be zoning out.”

Diana shut her mind like a steel trap, letting the offense bleed away into silence. She looked politely up at the woman sitting across the table from her and relaxed her grip on the cup in her hands. 

It'd taken her few days to track this one down, but from the information she was offered, this one was her best bet in all of Shurima. Sivir, the name that she’d heard more times than she could count, with a fair amount of warnings sprinkled into those recommendations. 

Diana realized the seconds were ticking by since she'd asked a question. It wasn’t doing her any good to make a poor first impression with her, especially with the way her skeptical and suspicious gaze caught the minute movement of her forced relaxation.

“My apologies,” Diana replied sincerely, something of a wry smile reaching her eyes. She brought the small stone cup of water to her chapped lips, taking a deep draw from it. “I'm not from here. I'm afraid the desert climate has left me a bit out of sorts. No, it's not offensive. I just haven't been called that in a long time. I wasn't expecting it.”

“Really? Seemed like the obvious joke to me.” Sivir continued despite the way Diana’s brows furrowed, casually sipping from her own cup before speaking again as if daring her to interrupt. “So, you're the one who's been asking around for me. So you clearly know who I am, which comes as no surprise considering. However, that puts me at a disadvantage; I'm afraid I know nothing at all about who  _ you _ might be.”

Diana refilled her cup from the battered metal pitcher on her table as she spoke. “Unfortunately, I believe you will find that I'm not nearly so infamous for my name to be recognized.” Sivir smirked, the bitter look just barely lifting one corner of her mouth, acquiescing with a little nod and a tilt of her cup. “My name is Diana. I am passing through Shurima from Targon in a pilgrimage to Ionia.”

“And you're looking for someone to guide you through the desert,” Sivir supplied, looking suddenly entirely disinterested. She stared down into her cup for a moment and then tossed back the remainder of her drink—something strong-smelling Diana hadn't quite caught the name of—and brought it sharply back down to the table, pushing away from the table but not yet standing. “I don't know who you've been talking to, but I don't  _ do _ desert guides. Particularly not for religious types looking to pay me back in some theoretical 'good' that their god may or may not do for me later. Hm?” She quirked her brows, challenging Diana to argue with her evident experience in these matters.

Diana took another sip from her cup of water, watching her thoughtfully, not for the first time cursing the sensation of sand and dust stuck in her throat. "I'm not looking for a guide," she finally said, unfazed by the slight. “I am more than capable of making a pilgrimage on my own.” The tempestuous presence in her head—in her chest—was all too eager to lead her through the lands of Shurima, from temple to monument, from statue to fountain, desperate to have the darkness struck from their very stones, desperate to have these holy places consecrated once more. But where it currently drew her...

“There is a ruined temple nearby,” Diana elaborated after a short pause. Sivir waited, her interest seemingly piqued enough to lean back in the chair and raise a brow. “An ancient Lunari monument, long abandoned now. About a day's travel from here, due east.”

The swell of memories that swept over her was overpowering enough that Diana found herself listing slightly in her seat. The memories weren't hers—though they felt like it—though she'd never been in Shiruma—they couldn't be hers—but they were—but they weren't—but she could still feel the cool water in her hands from the temple basin—could recall the mild floral scent of the evening primrose tea the elders brewed under starlight—could feel the smooth, cool stone under her knees as she meditated within the inner sanctum—

“You weren't kidding about not getting along with desert weather.” Sivir jolted Diana sharply from her reverie as she refilled her cup of water this time staring at her suspiciously from over the pitcher. “Come on, drink up. I need you conscious at the very least to tell me more about this job of yours. So far you sound no different than most of the zealots that come begging for my help, but it has been a long time since anyone mentioned the Lunari.”

Sivir waved off Diana's attempts at apology when she started, merely pointing sternly at Diana's cup till she'd drained the contents, filling it again immediately.

“Slowly,” Sivir started, nodding at Diana’s cup and refilling her own with something from a steel flask at her hip. “So.”

‘'So' indeed,” Diana said, fingers dancing thoughtfully along the side of her cup. “The temple has likely been buried by now. Of that much I am not certain. I have been told this of no real consequence to you.”

Sivir shrugged, not even attempting to look humble. “It wouldn't be the first one I've delved into.” She sipped directly from her flask and clipped it back to her hip, shaking her head. “But it  _ will _ cost you. I would hope you've also 'been told' that I don't work for free, and I sure as hell don’t work for cheap when you don’t even know if what you’re looking for is real.”

“I never said anything about not knowing if it was real.” Diana bit her tongue, trying not to let her impatience and frustration spill over, sipping at her water to further hide it. “I know that it is there. I just don’t know if it’s been buried in this atrocious sand over the course of the last few centuries or so.”

“You understand that the Lunari, if they existed at all, have been gone for,” Sivir tapped a finger on the table, “well, a long time. No one even knows if they made it to Shurima.”

“They did.” Diana left no room for her resolve to be questioned.

“Fine. If you say so.” It was evident her answer applied to both comments, and Sivir polished off the contents of her cup, not quite wanting to deal with all that it implied. “Let's just get down to brass tacks then, shall we? What are we looking for, and how much are you offering?"

Diana cocked her head. She could appreciate the hunter's bluntness. Too many months, in her opinion, had been spent alone since her departure from Targon, making her way silently and solemnly through Shurima on her journey. Small talk had quickly become altogether foreign to her, and patience even more so.

Sivir merely watched idly as Diana silently untied a small coin purse from her belt and slid it across the table. She hefted it in one hand, gauging the weight. Then she removed a gold coin from the purse, raising a brow at the curiously archaic design pressed into the metal. She drew the plain hunting knife at her hip, drew the blade across the surface, and gave a noncommittal hum when it revealed the coin solid gold to the core.

"Well, you've purchased my interest, at the least," she said finally, putting the coin back in its purse and cinching the clasp shut again.

Diana smiled. "Call it a down payment, then. There are some artifacts of silver and white gold at the temple which you may take as recompense."

She had, early in her travels, felt a substantial amount of guilty nerves at the thought of pilfering coin or aging artifacts from the former holy sites of her own Order to pay her way as she traveled, but for once the volatile presence within her was certain of itself: both coin and relic were intended to serve the Moon in its crusade for balance. If Diana was indeed the last of her Order, then the very stones of the sacred monuments would serve her will.

And so if those relics had to serve her by serving as payment, then so be it.

“So what is it you need  _ me _ for?” Sivir sounded suspicious. Diana could hardly fault her. “You seem convinced that you know where you're going and how to get there. What exactly are  _ you _ after?”

“Nothing physical.” Diana sipped her water again to give her some time to compose her thoughts. Sivir didn't strike her as a particularly religious type. She made her living from plundering ancient tombs and temples; it was quite the tell, after all. Even now, Sivir was casting a skeptical eye in her direction as she took another drink from her flask. “I'm not sure how much you know of the Lunari.”

“Just that they probably existed at some point.” Sivir shrugged a shoulder.

It pained Diana to think that Sivir already knew more than she, herself, had known a year ago.

“The temple was at one point a place of great transformation,” she said. The memories of the temple in its former splendor thrummed through her blood with all the force of a riptide. She shuddered despite herself. “Hundreds would travel from Shurima and Valoran both in order to meditate there, hoping to achieve some sort of...enlightenment, I suppose. Few ever experienced as such, but none went away  _ unchanged _ .”

She stared into her cup, glassy-eyed for a moment. “Since the Lunari dwindled away, though, the temple has been left silent and abandoned.  _ Stagnating. _ ” The presence in her chest twisted violently in an emotion rapidly approaching anger. Diana drank a deep draw of water, as if to aggressively wash the sensation down. “And when such a place is left unattended, certain beings make their home there, and they  _ fester,  _ like a disease _. _ ”

“You know an awful lot about this temple for having never been there,” Sivir muttered against the rim of her cup.

Diana merely lifted her chin. “I never said I hadn't been.” The voice was her own, clipped by impatience, but the words were not. She stood by them regardless of how foreign they still felt.

“You said it's been long abando...” Sivir trailed off, sitting up suddenly with a suspicious slant to her stare. Diana returned the stare, unflinching, allowing Sivir's flickering gaze to search her. She saw the recognition in Sivir's eyes a second before it seemed to finally register. “Shit,” she swore under her breath, leaning back in surprise. “You're one of them, aren't you? One of the Ascended.”

Diana smiled.

“Shit,” Sivir swore again, louder this time. “Surprised it took me that long to notice. Most of you aren't that, uh, subtle.” She ran her hand over her mouth, thoughtful. Then she huffed and took a much deeper draw from her flask. “ _ Shit. _ ”

“Something wrong with that?”

The look Sivir shot in her direction told her quite clearly that there was a  _ lot _ wrong with that. Still, she didn't get up and leave, but rather continued thumbing the metal of her flask with a sour look on her face. “You lot tend to nearly get me killed when you get involved with anything,” she deadpanned. “You said there's  _ things _ festering in this temple of yours. How big a deathtrap are we talking here?”

Diana considered her reply for a moment. “If you're as good as people claim,” she pronounced carefully, “then it should be no trouble at all.”

Sivir frowned, taking the slight for what it was. “If anything, I'm  _ better _ than what people claim,” she warned, tapping her index finger on the table. “That doesn't mean I'm willing to get myself killed on your behalf. I'll fight for a cause, but I won’t die for one.”

“Fortunately, that's why I’m hiring you.”

Sivir looked like she didn't quite believe that, but she didn't argue the point this time. “So, to reiterate:  _ how _ deadly are we talking?”

Diana scarcely hid her wry smile behind her hand in time. “I understand you have reasonable experience in dealing with voidspawn.”

“God _ dammit. _ ”

* * *

Their trek was made on foot under the last sliver of a waning moon the following night.

Diana wasn't sure she'd ever detested sand more.

“You get used to it,” Sivir commented as Diana shook out her arm again, trying to shake the damn annoying granules from the joint of her armor. Diana glanced askance at her; Sivir turned her head just fast enough that Diana just barely caught her amused grin. At least Sivir was polite enough to not laugh in her face. “Sand's actually a good thing for armor, y'know? Keeps it polished.”

Diana simply made a noise of vaguely-irked acknowledgement.

_ Focus. _

The desert, she had to admit, looked vastly different at night. Though she still found herself drawn ever forward, hazy visions of thousands of years' worth of travels and pilgrimages across the sands of Shurima warped her sights, overlaying memory onto perception and slowing her pace to a bemused ambling.

_ It should be here... _

“Watch it!” Sivir barked, yanking her bodily back by her gorget.

“What—” Diana found herself stumbling backwards, sand sliding beneath her feet, held up only by Sivir's impatient grip. “What? What's wrong?”

“Honestly,” Sivir muttered, dipping her hand into a small pouch at her hip, “you religious types are all the same. Heads too far in the clouds to watch where you're fucking walking.” She withdrew a small handful of stones, scarcely larger and heavier than pebbles.

Diana's pride burned at the insult, but retaliating hardly seemed like an appropriate choice. She let out a slow, calming breath. “What  _ are _ you talking about?”

“ _ Look. _ ” Sivir tossed the stones out onto the sand, two strides ahead of Diana’s path.

The stones disappeared, the added weight causing the ancient glass of the temple skylight to groan and crack in spiderwebs, eventually shattering under the strain. Sand poured into the hole, raining down with bits of glass from the temple roof into the darkness. Diana gaped, nearly uncomprehending.

“Buried under the sands indeed,” Sivir tutted, hefting a length of sturdy-looking rope from her pack. “You'd've been buried under the sands right along with it, broken legs included. I'm not carrying your injured ass back to Shurima on my own. That's just asking for trouble.”

Diana watched, mystified, as Sivir slowly edged closer to the newly-established hole, kicking in the shards of glass that remained, tying the rope about the exposed steel of the pane and giving it a few sharp tugs to test its strength. “How did you know that was  _ there? _ ”

The grin Sivir shot her was all hubris. “I've been doing this a  _ long _ time.” She gave the rope a final rough tug, and nodded when it didn't budge the ancient steel pane. “Plus, no wind right now.” Sivir gestured at the hole as her movements sent more sand sliding down into the dark. “Sand doesn't shift like that on its own.”

Sivir peered down into the pitch-black temple and began feeding the rest of the rope down into the darkness. “I presume you know how to climb rope?”

“Of course.” It'd been one of the many skills she'd picked up from the Rakkor on Mount Targon. She stepped forward.

“Good. Then don't hurt yourself.” Sivir swung her legs into the pit, glanced at Diana with a pointed quirk of the brow, and vanished into the dark below.

Diana cast an uneasy glance up at the star-flecked sky above as she wound the rope about her ankle. With little more than a sigh, Diana lowered herself down as well.

The darkness of the temple was oppressive. The single cleared skylight did nothing to light the antechamber, and centuries of dust and stale air seemed to press in on her from all sides. Diana swallowed hard. It did little to wet her painfully dry throat. How long  _ had _ this temple been abandoned? She knew Sivir knew little of the Lunari, but to say they'd never reached Shurima when such a grand temple existed...

The sensation that she was trespassing somewhere she did not belong was overwhelming.

“Not bad.” Sivir's voice made Diana jolt as she neared the floor, so entrenched in her thoughts she'd nearly forgotten she wasn't alone. “Careful, careful. Almost there.” Sivir's hand pressing solidly against her back was almost a comfort as Diana carefully steadied herself on the ground again, the sand heavy under her sabatons.

Unease crept into Diana's aching throat as their steps echoed through the darkness. Something was wrong.

“Hang on,” Sivir grumbled. Diana obediently paused, trying to peer through the inky darkness before her as Sivir fumbled in her pack. The sparks from her flint were near blinding in the dark, but after several strikes, a flame took. Sivir nodded at Diana as she lifted a heavy-looking torch. “Might be easier to get through if we can both see.”

Diana didn't answer. She stared up at the walls of the antechamber before them, cautious for something she couldn’t name.

For all that dust and sand and dirt had accumulated in the temple, for the first time Diana's memories overlapped perfectly with the sights in front of her, and the clarity seized her by the chest, stealing her very breath. Vast marble walls stretched around them, decorated with massive limestone reliefs of crashing waves against craggy mountain sides. Thin veins of silver spider-webbed through the marble, glinting faintly in the torchlight as they came together at the entrance to the sanctum, pooling into an enormous entryway that yawned before them.

Diana strode forward as if in a dream, ignoring Sivir's annoyed little curse as she jogged to catch up with her.

“If you fall through something else in here,” Sivir warned, hoisting her torch higher up to cast the light further out, “I'm not going to... oh.”

Diana was silent, letting the temple speak for itself.

The inner sanctum was even larger than the antechamber. The far wall was inlaid with an intricate mosaic of opal, amethyst, and lapis lazuli, depicting a feminine figure dancing alongside the ever-shifting cyclical phases of the moon. The reflection pool below mirrored the image in the pitch-black stillness, in water like obsidian, clear and smooth. Sigils of sanctified silver circled the pool in a simple sequence, the gnomon of the sundial erupting from the inky depths.

“Huh.” Sivir squinted up at the ceiling as Diana wandered deeper in, absently trailing her fingers along the cool, pale marble wall, searching, searching... “This one's actually in better condition than I thought it would be.” Diana's hip collided with the edge of the winch in the dark. The clatter of steel on wood had Sivir swinging her torch in her direction. “Hey, what the hell are you—?”

Diana grinned to herself, running her fingers over a polished wooden spoke of the heavy crank. Centuries ago, it'd taken five young initiates and a length of rope to turn this crank. Now, feeling a glimmer of preternatural strength along her shoulders and forearms, Diana drew her khopesh with a flourish, slotting the hook of the blade easily into the indent that centuries' worth of rope had worn into the wood. “Just...remembering.”

Diana braced her heel into the floor beside the axle, gripped her weapon in both hands, and with a snarl of exertion  _ heaved. _ The whole of the temple groaned with her efforts, the very foundations trembling as chains and gears long out of use ground into life deep behind the temple walls. 

Sivir spat out a stream of curses as sand began to trickle and then  _ pour _ in from the ceiling, scrambling away as crescent blades of metal yawned open in a dilating iris, letting centuries' worth of sand and dust stream down to the floor in cascades as the screech and grind of metal echoed in the chamber.

“What the  _ hell _ are you doing?” Sivir hissed again, storming over to shove Diana by the shoulder to get her attention. “Have you lost your mind? Don't just go messing around with random shit you find lying around. People get killed that way.”

She backed up, incredulous, when Diana turned to her, blade leveled at her chest. “Are you kidding me?”

“This temple is mine,” Diana reminded her softly. “I know what I'm doing.”

Sivir shrugged, sneering in disgust as Diana turned back around, choosing to use her torch to explore more of the room as Diana continued.

Diana hooked her blade into the next spoke of the crank, tightened her grip again, and wrenched the device open further. The ancient mechanisms continued to protest, grinding sluggishly as they were dragged open by command of the Order reborn. The sand that'd sat atop the temple for gods-knew-how-long poured faster into the widening gap.

Two more herculean pulls of the winch and the panels slotted into place with a deafening boom, fully open at last as the remaining dregs of sand trickled over the edges of the open space.

The ripples in the water of the reflection pool settled, stars twinkling silently in the ink-black reflection of the night sky Diana had bared to the temple.

Unease gripped her by the throat.

“Are you done?” Sivir asked, wearing her annoyance openly as Diana hesitantly stepped back towards her, moving to the center of the room. “You've probably told every single band of thieves in a five-mile radius where we are with that stunt. Shall we light a bonfire next? Shoot fireworks possibly?”

“This isn't right,” Diana murmured the repetitious thought, brow furrowing as she slowly walked along the edge of the water. The air crackled with muted frenetic energy, but the temple remained still and quiet.

“Been saying  _ that _ this whole fucking time,” Sivir agreed, hefting her crossblade into hand as she spoke. She crouched, lowering the torch to the ground, letting it burn harmlessly on the stone floor to free up both hands. “Thought you said this place was crawling with voidspawn? We should've been dead before we even touched the floor.”

“It... it  _ is, _ though.” Diana turned, suspicious gaze considering the mosaic again. She could physically  _ feel _ the hostile magic lurking in the dark, trespassing here in the temple, creeping over her skin like insects. How could Sivir  _ not? _ Diana's pale violet eyes traced the mosaic down to the water below as if it held any answers for her. A ripple passed over the reflection of her disconcerted frown.

_...What? _

Diana crouched, tension etched in the lines of her scowl, grip slowly tightening on her blade as she stared into the water.

The reflection of the silent stars on the water stared back at her.

Two of them blinked.

Four of them blinked.

Diana's alarmed “GET BACK!” was nearly drowned out by the splashing and screeching of Terrors surging up out of the pool, bruise-black armor glossy with the spray of holy water in the low light. The wide arc of her curved blade tore a sizzling gash into the first creature, stopping the forward progress with a wet thud of crackling magic as it fell at her feet, silenced when she slammed her blade through the back of its skull.

“What the  _ fuck? _ ” Sivir yelped, backing up as the rest of the chittering creatures circled about them, toxic spittle drooling from serrated mandibles and hissing on the floor.

Diana's eyes flickered over the creatures slithering in and out of the dark, counting silently. Seven of the great slavering beasts: four hulking abominations, three leaner demons.  _ Luna preserve us, _ she thought grimly, touching her rune with her fingertips. “I did say they'd be here,” she said aloud instead. “Look alive, Sivir; stay in the light and you should be fine.”

“ _ Should _ be—?!”

One of the beasts leapt at Sivir from the side as another pair lunged for Diana. The monstrosities howled, enraged by their felled companion and by the glint of moonlight on Diana’s blade.

Diana dove forward and rolled into a crouch, twisting around to cleave her blade deep into the fissures between armored plates of her next target. The abomination gave a piercing shriek, stumbling sideways as viscous black ichor splattered to the floor. She flipped her grip and swung the blade in the opposite direction, the second crumpling to the floor, flesh melting from the gaping space that had formerly been a head.

Diana risked a glance at Sivir. She utilized the ricocheted crossblade with the air of a master, making it look easy as she caught and released the blade. Her expression pinched in furious concentration as she moved, keeping her back to the wall as her it sliced through the smaller, faster targets. 

Power thrummed through Diana, her aspect eager as ever to cleanse these foul creatures, to renew this sacred place, and it burned in her like righteous fire waiting to be unleashed each time. She allowed it, accustomed now to the ethereal glow that it washed over her. Her blade vibrated with the same energy, never marred by the blood, but vitalized by it. It would never be fully sated until the world was free of this evil.

“Sivir!” She lunged, piercing the armor of her fourth target, grunting with the effort of ripping out the hooked end of her blade, the ichor spraying from its’ chest and over her face before she loped the head of it off as well. “Can you talk while fending off those beasts?”

“ _ Kinda _ busy!” Sivir grunted with another catch, spinning with the momentum before she hurled it again. Diana suspected she was starting to wonder why she'd agreed to Diana's “outrageously stupid” request to leave her merry gang of sellswords back home. “What do you want?” 

The two beasts Sivir had managed to cut down and the one Diana had failed to behead began to convulse violently after a short time, a piercing scream from those remaining in the dark an echoing rally cry as they circled back around the space. 

Sivir instinctively reached for her ears, startled as the cacophony sent her careening off-balance. Diana recalled her earlier encounters with the creatures having a similar effect: rattling her to the core, blighting her vision, making it difficult to think of anything beyond that horrible sound. To her credit, Sivir attempted to toss her blade again, but the motion was was somehow wrong, too slow, too awkward. It splintered chunks from the marble columns on one side of the pool instead of gouging into the beast she'd aimed for.

Diana had been afraid of this possibility. The horrors had shapeshifted before, corrupted flesh melting and reforming, unfolding its body to remake it in ever-stronger ever-tougher forms, rising even after she cut them down again and again, until she realized that unless she struck true to the head, they could go on and on for a potential eternity. Stupid to allow herself to forget that now. Her aspect seethed, her fury white-hot and surrounding her with power incarnate.  _ Insolent demons. _

She hurled herself at the nearest creature before it could finish the shift, molten ichor forming new armor, new shapes, better defense. She was a blur of silver light as she struck, knocking it off balance as she landed on its shoulders. It had no time to even register her presence before the blade skewered it from crown to jaw. 

The jump from across the pool was an equal blur, grenades of light exploding on contact with the two monsters as they scrambled to get up, incandescent moonlight igniting shimmering welts across the creatures' twisted forms. As Diana lifted her blade to strike, she was yanked off balance by the last beast left in the dark, slamming into the marble floor with enough force to dash the breath from her lungs.

So blinded by her fury, she'd failed to feel the missing seventh target until its talons wrapped around her ankle. Her armor screeched in protest as the monster dragged her across the cold marble floor towards the pool. Acid spittle ate through the cloth between her armor as she was dragged, searing the skin beneath with an excruciating, blistering heat. Every instinct within her screamed not to touch the water in its current state, impure and defiled as it likely was. The thought was far more concerning that what the current pain demanded.

“Diana!” Sivir squared herself, cursing at the two demons in front of her, scorched with an obscene pale light against their darkened flesh. Her crossblade hung limp in her trembling hand, her posture betraying her own paranoid exhaustion. “ _ Shit. _ ”

“They’re branded with moonlight—kill them!” Diana tried to twist in the corrupted grip, the slick of her own blood around her calf slipping painfully to her advantage. Her blade glanced off the glossy, segmented armor with a  _ tink  _ as she took a wild swing behind her, and she abandoned her blade before it slid into the pool with them. She scarcely caught sight of the sliver of a crescent moon overhead. Diana could only breathe out a desperate, familiar word that burned like starlight against her throat and tongue before she was submerged into the dark.


	2. Blood in the Water

Sarah Fortune made it her business to know things.

It was one of many reasons she was a deadly opponent with which to contend. If you found yourself on the receiving end of Miss Fortune's blunderbuss dragons, there wasn't a city on Runeterra that could give you refuge. She played folks for information the way she played cards for coin.  _ Who was—? Where did—? When were—? _

A smile, a touch of the hand, a furtive lean in,  _ Another round on me, I'd like to keep you all to myself a little longer. _ They really made it  _ far _ too easy. It was almost unfair.

You'd think eventually they'd come to recognize the redheaded reveler smiling and twirling and drinking in their midst for a shark on a bloodtrail, but Fortune found it didn't matter much: whether she teased the information from between gasps of pleasure from her women or gasps of terror from her men, they all  _ talked. _

And as she played her part, Miss Fortune  _ listened. _

The Brazen Hydra had been, of late, a particular favorite listening spot. Regardless of the whispered stories regaling her gleeful murder of the Corsair's Conclave, the watchmen of Bilgewater were still easy targets for plucking out morsels of information. “Men's men” through and through, a plunging neckline, a free pint, and a soft touch were still all she needed to whisk her bloodshed out of mind and keep them baying at her heels.  _ Easy. _ All she had to do was linger at her usual table in the corner and slowly nurse her drinks till an item of interest flitted into hearing.

Indeed, Sarah Fortune enjoyed little more than the game of collecting information.

Enough so that, when a haggard-looking mainlander with a drunken slur began to regale a nearby cluster of uninterested-looking watchmen near the bar with tales of his hunting exploits, she let herself lean back in her chair to listen a touch more carefully. Stories spun by braggarts were, of course, almost never worthwhile in the end, but Fortune could still appreciate the rarity that was a good tall tale.

“Nevuh seen anythin' lik’i’,” he stumbled through the words as Fortune decided to tune into his conversation. “Looks li’ i’ pulled the bloody moon ou’ the sky.”

“It's a pearl,” one of the watchmen deadpanned. “They  _ all _ look like the moon.” Fortune hid a smirk against her glass. She glanced over from the corner of her eye, watching them through her lashes.

“You don' ge’ i’,” the mainlander huffed, swaying on his stool until it tipped precariously. He ignored it, continuing with a steadfast determination to prove himself to the incredubly uninterested watchmen. “I done more huntin' in a year than you 'ave in your life. Wasn’ normal, i’ wasn'. I ‘ear she drug i’ up from way down in the rifts. Worth a fortune, I’m sure of i’.”

He was a strong-looking fellow, Fortune supposed; he might not have been lying about hunting monsters. Then again, his unkempt beard and unmended trousers screamed more than he ever could about his actual prowess: the man was flat broke, and was pissing away whatever he had left here at a tavern he could scarcely afford.

“I didn' wan’ i’, a'course,” the man added, swiping at his lips with the flat of his hand.  _ How charitable, _ Fortune thought to amuse herself. “Was af’er the Vastayan brat carryin' i’. Wan’ed to turn my damn luck around. Barclay wasn' havin' none of i’ though. Prick threw me out anyhow.” He spat on the floor. Fortune drained her glass in an easy motion.

_ Hello. _ To think she'd nearly written the drunken louse off. She'd had her mark on Barclay for the better part of three months; the bastard was  _ just _ wealthy enough that folks were a little more tight-lipped about him than most others. If not for that, he'd have been hurled off White Warf months ago with the others she'd cut down from Gangplank's former crew. A disenfranchised former crewman of his was almost more than she could've hoped for. Particularly one who'd already been stewing in cheap grog for a few hours.

_ Blood in the water. _

Fortune stretched, crossing her ankles as she reached backwards, working a little twinge out of her shoulder before she stood. The walk across the tavern was so practiced it was effortless: enough force under her heels to draw all attention to her, enough sway to her hips to keep it there. Hell, she'd even lay it on a little thick for the poor sap's benefit, crossing her arms beneath her breasts on the bartop as she leaned in, contemplating her options before she ordered.

A litmus test: he couldn't more obviously be throwing away the last of his coin this evening, but Fortune still wanted to know his  _ priorities _ .

“Th' lady's on  _ me _ ,” the man called from his spot near the door, right on cue. Fortune flashed him a smile that revealed little but promised too much.  _ Ah, _ she noted, raising her glass to him with a wink.  _ So he's desperate, then. _

His bleary, watery eyes watched her like a starved wharf rat as she sauntered over to him, drink in hand and the scarcest of smiles on her scarlet-painted lips. The few watchmen who'd been killing time listening to his rambling sat up a little straighter at her approach with too-wide grins and a bawdy whoop or two. Fortune met the noise with a wrinkled nose and a playful pout, leaning her hip against the hunter's chair.

“At least  _ someone _ in Bilgewater still knows how to be a gentleman,” she murmured against the rim of her glass, a shy smile aimed down at him. He preened under the compliment, lust and hubris alike struggling to settle on his drink-flushed face. “Mind if I take a seat?” An easy opening for euphemism.

His dark blue eyes squinted with vulgar humor. “Only the bes’ sea’ in the house for a pre’y lady such as yourself,” he drawled, slouching in his seat to spread his knees further.

_ Got it in one. _ Fortune feigned a little giggle behind her hand as she slid into the seat across him. She drew the hand back, shifting her braid back over her shoulder, slowly tracing the line of her shoulder, and offered him a smile that simmered with heat and promise as her fingers lingered against her collar. He ogled the newly-bared skin of her chest, her throat, his smug little grin growing as his eyes tracked each baited move.

“Then again,” Fortune mused, leaning forward again, drawing his gaze down as she kept her awareness of the pub sharp, “you don't seem like you're from around here, either. I'd  _ love _ to know about your accent.” She traced her middle finger along the rim of her glass and cocked her head when he looked up after a long moment, the very picture of interest.

He was all too eager to tell her all about himself: his name (the information considered and discarded), his trade (a monster hunter, down on his luck), where he was raised (Noxus; go figure), how pretty he found her (very). Fortune listened and smiled, laughing when appropriate, brushing her fingers over his arm to refocus his attention when needed.

Like when a flicker of realization sparked in his gaze. “Don' think I cauchyer name,” he pointed out, as if suddenly recalling any semblance of manners he might have sober.

She smiled, worrying her lip between her teeth as her fingers moved over his wrist and knuckles. “Do you need to know it?”

The grin she got in return said quite clearly that he didn't. Suited her just fine, too.

“Did I hear right, earlier?” she prompted, resting her chin in her hand, letting him bask in her attention. “You worked with Captain Barclay?”

He scoffed, waving the comment away. “Righ' prick, tha' one. Threw me out, 'adn' even done nothin'. 'Bad luck' 'e said.” He sneered, chugging another mouthful of grog.

She made a sympathetic sound in the back of her throat, reaching over to place her hand over his. An interesting assessment, to be sure. Certainly sailors were among the most superstitious lot you could hope to run into, but it was scarcely without reason. What mainlanders might call “bad luck” could be cataclysmic on the open water. More importantly, though—luck of any type was rarely unearned.

_ Interesting. _

“I don't know how he thinks he'll find his mark without you,” Fortune murmured against the rim of her glass, watching him sulk through lidded eyes. “I hear the Vastaya are difficult to track even for professional hunters.”

“Aye, 's true,” he blustered, puffing his chest out. “'M the only one would know howta track 'em, too. I've done it 'fore, I'll do it again. Li'l secret, by th' by.” Fortune leaned in as he did, cocking her ear to him. “Prick don' know where 'e's goin'. Thinks 'is mark's in Pil'over. She'll be in Ionia by now, she will!” His drunken bark of derisive laughter so close to her ear was nearly deafening, but Fortune managed to bite back her wince and give a thin little titter of a laugh in its place.

_ Piltover, then, _ she noted as the man listed a little too far to the side before righting himself again. Piltover was easy. Bilgewater captains were more than welcome there— _ some _ one had to find a market for Hextech outside of Zaun, after all—but it was  _ just _ far enough away from the Serpent Isles themselves that loyalty to any one captain was easily bought and sold. Poor bastard wouldn't know what hit him.

So that just left the matter of his little bad luck charm to dispose of.

“You know...” She let the pondering phrase hang in the air for a moment, tracing little circles on his palm with her index finger. It couldn’t have been easier to wind his attention in if it was on the Syren’s capstan. At the thought of her ship, a slow predatory grin spread over her scarlet-stained lips. “Perhaps we can... help each other scratch an itch, then.” The drunk’s grin went lecherous, his eyes moving from her hand to her cleavage, ogling openly again. “You need a ship to Ionia. I can get you there.” She kept her voice low, even, simmering with promise. His wet, beady eyes dragged up to her face, still grinning at her.

“An’ wha’s a lady li’ you need in turn?”

His eyes stayed locked on hers as she slowly drew the trap shut around him. “Just that you and I take a little trip to the western docks.” His eyes darkened with lust.

Any visitor to Bilgewater knew better than to wander through the western dockyards after dark unless you either had company for the night, or were looking to find some.

Fortune stood slowly, deliberately. Bit her lip. Smiled.

He stumbled to his feet, a desperate and fervent hunger painted on his expression. “Jus’—lemme jus’ close m’tab.”

_ Hook, line, and sinker. _

It was a royal pain in the ass keeping the man’s greedy hands off her on the cool, brisk walk from the tavern, but Fortune recognized this as a necessary annoyance.

A lesson she’d learned early from the whiskey-buzzed fisherman who’d cast a sympathetic eye towards an orphaned street urchin with a shock of red hair and cold blue eyes. Don’t yank when the hook catches. Let the line out. Let it think it wasn’t bait. Then pull it back in closer—and let the line back out again. Gentle. Patient. A soft hand always drew more than a rough one.

And Captain Fortune could always employ a soft hand when she needed to.

Still, when he brazenly reached out to grasp at her ass a  _ third _ time, her patience snapped taut, and she spun him hard, forcing his back  _ hard _ against the wall of the first building on the pier. The old, termite-worn wood groaned in protest, a cascade of dust settling on his hair and beard. His look of surprise needed only a slow, burning grin from her to shift into a look of pleased expectation.

Pity he was too drunk to understand irony, she thought with a small measure of humor. That he was so eager while also  _ beyond _ too drunk to even keep it up was the funniest example of it she’d seen in awhile.

“Before we talk business,” she purred, drawing her fingers down his throat, dodging a clumsy attempt at a kiss, “I really must know...” She relented just enough to press fully against him, leaning in to whisper into his ear, “What  _ did _ you do for Barclay to call you bad luck?”

He craned his neck up, a flicker of fearful confusion in his haze of drunken arousal. Though, she supposed that if any locale could pierce through a cloud of Myron’s Dark, it  _ would _ be the dense fog banks and dim oil lantern-light of the western docks. “Why’s i’ matter?”

Fortune clicked her tongue as if in understanding. “You know us sailing types,” she placated, stroking a hand over his forearm. “We’re...  _ superstitious _ .” She breathed the word into his jaw. He groaned, his hips clashing instinctively against hers, even through the layers of thick cloth. Fortune nearly rolled her eyes at the display he was fronting for absolutely nobody.

The man leaned in conspiratorially, breath hot and stinking with cheap liquor at this distance. Years of practice kept Fortune from flinching with disgust when he was bold enough to place his hands on her hips, fumbling to drag her more solidly against his lap. “I kep’ a few more coin than I shoul’ ‘ave.”

Fortune kept her expression schooled into a neutral sort of interest, though her brows raised below the brim of her cap in knowing surprise. She caught his chin playfully in her free hand, gently shaking him. “You didn’t pay the Mother Serpent her tithe? How scandalous.”  _ How ironic. _

_ No wonder he called you bad luck. _

“Kep’ sayin’ was my faul’ tha’ storm blew in,” he kept rambling, watching greedily as Fortune’s hand fell to his knee—as it inched slowly higher up his thigh. “Li’ a serpen’ was th’ one threw ‘alf ‘is crew overboar’.”

“Aye, how indeed could the Kraken stir up a storm like that?” Fortune drawled, eyes growing hard, letting the rough-hewn edges of her birth accent seep back into her voice. The clueless idiot had the nerve to  _ laugh _ , as though he were in on the joke. Her grip on his thigh went tight. A cruel facsimile of a tourniquet. “You mainlanders don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

He didn’t see her free hand draw Shock from her hip. He sure as shit felt the lead slug in his kneecap, though, his eyes bulging as the air shot from his lungs in a gurgling wheeze.

Captain Fortune spun aside in a graceful movement, watching with cold disdain as he crumpled to the dock, clutching at the mess of shredded flesh and shattered bone, trembling shouts of horror melting into shrieks of agony as the pain finally penetrated the fog of alcohol on his brain. “Oh, get over it,” she scoffed, holstering the wheellock once more. “One shot’s barely even a love tap.”

“I—I didn’—you—” He was rambling, eyes rolling in pain and terror.

“Stupid to tell anyone in  _ this _ viper pit that you withheld coin from the Bearded Lady,” Fortune added, smoothing her coat lapels back into place as he struggled to scramble away from her on his ruined leg. “And after your ass got half Barclay’s crew killed, too! Your lack of self-preservation is  _ astounding _ , lad.”

“I didn’... mercy,” he whimpered, cowering at the edge of the dock. “Please, ‘m sorry, I didn’ know—”

Fortune’s lip curled in disgust; he’d soiled himself in his drunken terror. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to. You’ll get plenty chance to explain to the Lady yourself.” She planted her boot firmly in his ribcage, pinning him to the edge of the dock. Fortune watched him snivel for a moment, brow raised, curious if he’d get ahold of himself. It was quickly made clear that he wouldn’t. She tutted, shaking her head in disappointment. “Blood for blood, lad.”

He flailed for mere seconds, churning the water with blood and vomit, and then the seas were silent again, lapping softly at the pier once more. Fortune shook her head—dipped a hand into her coin purse to toss a pair of silvers into the black water.

Reconciliation for the Lady, and an offer of good hunting for the Wolf.

Fortune hummed soft to herself as she started back down the pier, leaving nothing behind but a bloody stain on the wood.

She had a trip to the City of Progress to prepare for.

* * *

 

Fortune felt sure she could live another century and still not be entirely certain of how she’d lucked out in forging such a fierce friendship with her first mate Rafen.

The thought always occurred to her during the havoc of leaving port from Bilgewater—a task altogether too tedious to complete without her mate on deck—the week or more on open water near unbearable. The thought recurred now as he let himself into her quarters, pushing the door open with his foot, bearing a pair of pewter cups nearly too full to carry. She grinned up at him, leaning back against her chair, navigation charts before her momentarily forgotten.

“Have I mentioned lately that you’re still my favorite?” Sarah quipped, accepting one of the proffered cups with a grateful nod.

“You haven’t,” he returned, grin bright against his dark skin. “So I suppose you were overdue.”

“Aye? Here’s to the only man who’s not a damned disappointment, then.”

Rafen cackled at the old joke and toasted his cup against hers anyway. That he didn’t swing her way hadn’t ever stopped multitudes from taking their affection too literally, and neither could resist teasing the other about it when the opportunity struck.

“I thought I was doing you a favor bringing you ale while you do paperwork,” Rafen tutted, dropping into the seat opposite her, “but clearly you’re not suffering enough if you’ve got jokes. Give it back.”

“Hey, hey,  _ hey _ ,” Sarah protested, leaning dangerously on the back legs of the chair out of his reach and downing the rest of the cup in one unbroken swig, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand after. “Just because you’re my favorite doesn’t mean you get away with Noxian-giving alcohol, lad.”

“Aye, aye.” He shook his head, still chuckling softly. Rafen inched his chair closer to peer at her notes. “Finally cornering this slimy fuck, then, eh?” His pale amber eyes scanned the document nearest him. “Not gonna run off and leave us in Piltover?”

Sarah made a noise in the negative, sliding over a scrap sheet she’d been doing some brief time calculations on, tapping a circled figure with her pen. “Lost half his crew real, real recently, and he didn’t stop in Bilgewater long enough to recoup his full losses. Apparently on a hunt, didn’t want the trail to run cold. He’s barely operating on a skeleton crew right now—he won't be able get out of port fast enough for it to matter.”

“Pinned down in Piltover, then,” Rafen noted aloud. His gaze flickered over to her with a teasing grin. “I think I’ve read that romance novel.”

Sarah elbowed him. “ _ Gross _ .” She brought her pen up to her lips, tapping thoughtfully. “Guess the only real issue is gonna be flushing him out. ‘S a big city.”

“I can get some of the boys to lock down his ship in port,” Rafen offered, pulling her hand-sketched map of the Piltover port closer to browse her observation notes in the margins. “Keep him stuck in the city.”

“We  _ could _ ,” she agreed, still frowning at the spread of documents. “Wouldn’t stop him from just paying off any randomer on the docks to smuggle him to Zaun, though. He’d be as good as lost again if he got that far.”

Rafen hummed against the rim of his cup as his gaze flicked back and forth from her notes to the map. He picked up a smaller scrap of parchment and rubbed it between his fingers as he read.

“I need more eyes in Piltover,” Sarah complained, leaning back to give her first mate more room to look over the information sprawled across her desk below him. “I fuckin’ hate docking there when I don’t know for sure where the fucker  _ is. _ ”

“Could ask your gal in the force for a lead,” Rafen half-joked, eyes squinting in mirth over the edge of the paper. “Put some of those...” He wiggled his fingers at her. “ _ Feminine wiles _ of yours to work.”

Sarah rolled her eyes, but she wasn’t quite composed enough not to give an undignified snort of laughter. “Lad,  _ you’re _ more ‘my gal’ than Caitlyn is,” she deadpanned, stealing his tankard to take another mouthful of ale. He allowed it, setting down the parchment and opting to look at the combination of information as a whole instead. “Know for sure I’ve kissed you more than I have her,” she added.

He waved the comment off. “Doesn’t count if we both have to be drunk.” She shrugged while he moved his fingers over the hilt of the dagger pinning the letter of bounty to her desk. “But really, you don’t think she could help?”

Sarah grimaced and made an iffy gesture. “Maybe? She actually  _ likes _ being sheriff, y’know. She doesn’t really care to stick her neck out for me.” A lazy smirk crossed her expression. “Plus, y’know, she likes reminding me how much trouble I cause her. ‘Litigation for days’ I think she said last time.”

Rafen scoffed. “Doesn’t have to be anything major. Just a yes or no on whether he’s still around.”

“She might not even know.”

“So it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

Sarah gave him a deadpan look only briefly before relenting. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll ask.  _ If, _ ” she added, “I even see her. I’m not seeking her out.”

Rafen scoffed, filching his tankard back to down the remainder. “You say that like it’s not a given fact. You can’t get within two leagues of the port without her making an excuse to look at you.”

With her first mate’s fondness for teasing, it was something of a surprise that he didn’t continue to needle her on the subject for the remainder of the fortnight-long jaunt through the Guardian’s Sea. It seemed that, for once, Rafen was actually more interested in helping her prepare for the manhunt than heckle her on her own ship.

Of course, Fortune knew Rafen better than she knew even herself; it was only a matter of time until his helpful streak ended.

At least he had the decency to wait for them to get past the Sun Gates.

“Cap.” Rafen nudged her with an elbow, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “You’ve, ah, got some admirers waiting.”

Fortune looked up from where she’d been monitoring the lengthy mooring process, eyes scanning the pier—and then pinching shut in ire. She sucked her teeth as Rafen’s snickering bubbled into an audible cackle. “Every time?” she wondered aloud. “We really have to do this  _ every time? _ ” Nonetheless, she’d schooled her expression back into disinterested expectation as the Syren was dragged slowly into port, guided by a Piltover pilot ship.

As they drew close, Fortune gave an only-slightly-sarcastic wave to Caitlyn, who was indeed already waiting for her on the pier. She didn’t deign to wave back.

She had to step away for a few moments to supervise as the hawsers were pulled down to the bollards, but when Fortune returned to her perch on the forecastle deck she couldn’t help but take the opportunity to rattle the cage. Fortune folded her arms under her breasts, leaning hard on the low wall to offer Caitlyn an easygoing grin. “Well, well,” she called down, altogether ignoring how easily her voice carried, “if it isn’t my favorite gal in Piltover.” Caitlyn scowled up at her despite the slightest flush pinking her ears. Rafen turned his back to the pier, biting his lip, altogether too chivalrous to laugh in Caitlyn’s face. Fortune simply shot him a knowing grin. The poor sheriff’s crush was just  _ painfully _ obvious.

Cool blue eyes dropped back down as a pair of dock wardens hurried to bring across a simple loading plank. Her smile dimmed as it hit the Syren’s deck altogether ungracefully. God, but she hated this fucking city’s red tape. She was starting to remember why she didn’t dock here often. “Missed me that much, darling?” Fortune drawled as Caitlyn started up the ramp. “Had to bring the whole welcoming party?” She offered a hand.

Caitlyn shot her a scathing look. “Fortune, I miss you like I miss a hole in the head.” She took the offered hand regardless, allowing the captain to help her aboard.

Fortune’s grin was vicious, her fingers lingering on Caitlyn’s palm. “You flatter me, sheriff.”

She didn’t dignify the comment with a response, merely pulling a pen from her clipboard and starting to write. “Let’s try to make this as painless as possible, shall we?”

“Oh, by all means,” Fortune agreed dryly, sweeping a hand out towards the deck of her ship.

Having a Piltover sheriff poking through every nook and cranny of her ship never got any less annoying, Fortune had found, even if she didn’t necessarily have anything to hide. Even so, the Syren had apparently been flagged in Piltover’s maritime records as a “ _ problem vessel _ ” that required the sheriff’s  _ personal _ stamp of approval to be allowed into the city proper. The only good part of that meant that Fortune only ever had Caitlyn to contend with, rather than any of the other overeager wardens rifling through her pride and joy.

However, it was hardly a  _ perk, _ considering that it meant sometimes Vi “helped” with the inspections, too. Fortune still hadn’t quite gotten over her outrage at the serpent-heart-sized hole Vi had put into the forecastle last time she’d docked here.

“I suppose it’s too much to ask that this is a pleasure trip,” Caitlyn noted upon seeing the spread of notes and reports spread over Fortune’s desk in her cabin.

Fortune shrugged and smiled, half-leaning a hip against the desk edge. “A woman’s work is never done, as you well know.” Before Caitlyn could even ask for it, she dipped a hand into one of the pockets of her coat to fetch the letter of bounty for her mark. Caitlyn shot her a long-suffering look as she accepted the page. “Aw, come now, what’s that look for?”

“Do you know exactly how much paperwork that you  _ personally _ cause me whenever you bring your work with you?” Caitlyn complained, flipping through several pages on her clipboard before resuming her rapid-fire writing.

Fortune merely gestured up and down at herself with an elegant motion, grinning openly. “Worth every minute of it, though, aye?”

Caitlyn paused from her writing just long enough to give her a lingering once-over. She heaved a performative sigh and continued writing, resigned. Fortune allowed herself a victorious smirk.

Four grueling hours were spent inspecting the Syren quite literally from stem to stern, by which point Fortune found her reserves of patience dwindling. Four hours of her rather conspicuous ship flying her rather conspicuous colors in the busiest port in Runeterra. Four hours she could’ve been slogging through Piltover on her manhunt. Four hours’ worth head start for Barclay to start running. And, as expected, four hours of Caitlyn not budging on tipping her off.

_ Fuckin’ annoying. _

“Your legally operating in Piltover is due to a  _ technicality _ in the existing laws and  _ circumstantial court precedents, _ ” Caitlyn informed her crossly. “That does  _ not _ in any way put  _ you _ above the law, nor does my own station for myself.”

“I’m not asking for his legal file here, darling,” Fortune drawled, leaning lazily against the ship railing. “I’m just asking if you’ve seen my man.”

“And I’m telling you  _ I can’t help you. _ ”

Fortune glanced at Rafen over Caitlyn’s shoulder, raising a brow:  _ See? _

Rafen shrugged and made a rude gesture at his mouth. Fortune bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smirking.

“I hope at the very least, then,” Fortune said, drawing her attention back to Caitlyn, “that you also won’t  _ interfere. _ ” She was a pretty thing, after all. Seemed a waste to have to remove her from the warpath.

Caitlyn’s expression soured. “Indeed not. You are...  _ entitled _ to your pound of flesh, legally speaking.” She shoved the clipboard against Fortune’s chest. “And if you’ll sign here, you can be well on your bloody way.”

She did so with a flourish. “ _ Gladly. _ ”

“Welcome to Piltover,  _ Captain, _ ” Caitlyn said, eyes cold as she took the board back. “Do enjoy your stay.” She turned on a heel departed the Syren without another word.

“Wow,” Rafen singsonged, drawing back to Fortune’s side. He raised a brow after Caitlyn before turning back to Fortune. “Your feminine wiles fuckin’  _ suck. _ ”

She dug an unsympathetic elbow into his ribs. “Round up Vaughn, Atwell, and Haywood,” she instructed, reaching into her fine coat to retrieve one of her hand-rolled cheroots, cold blue eyes watching after Caitlyn. Rafen straightened up at her tone. “I want Barclay’s ship locked down tight.”

“Aye, aye, Cap.” He hopped down to the main deck, bringing his thumb and index finger to his lips in a piercing whistle to gather attention from the crew, signaling the requested men to relay the orders while the others worked the lines to lower the sails. 

Fortune jumped down after Rafen. With a similarly sharp whistle she waved over a handful of her crewmen more, her chin held high and unlit smoke resting between her lips. “You five take the southern docks. The rest of you on the western side. Barclay doesn’t leave this fuckin’ port, savvy?”

“Aye!” The shouts of affirmation drew Fortune’s scarlet lips into a tight smile.

She tossed her head towards the port. “Then step to.” She gave them a half-second head start to bolt from the ship before reaching for her flint to light up, striding purposefully towards the pier. “Rafen!” Fortune called over her shoulder. “You’re on me!”

“As ever,” he agreed cheerfully, following with the slightest bounce to his step. “I take it you’ve got an inkling?”

“Not a one.” She pocketed her flint again, puffing on her smoke.

“Oh, helpful. So where are we going?”

Fortune cut her eyes over to him with a feral grin. “Figured your idea might’ve had some merit to it,” she said, shrugging a shoulder, her stride purposeful.

His brows jumped as he fell into step. “What, about Caitlyn?”

“She’s the sheriff, aye?” Fortune returned, her grin broadening. “She goes where the trouble in the city is. And with the hell Barclay’s raised just chasing targets in  _ Bilgewater _ ...”

Rafen’s lips curled into a knowing grin. “If he’s on a hunt in  _ Piltover, _ he’s sure to stir it up more,” he finished the thought aloud. He bumped Fortune’s shoulder with his own. “Check us out with the good ideas.”

“We’ve had our share of stupid ones. Was bound to happen eventually. Now c’mon, lad, step to.”

If there was any perk of being drawn into a job in the busiest port city in Runeterra, it had to be the ease of tailing even the most infamous of sheriffs undetected. For all that Fortune loved to make a scene, years eking out a living on the streets of Bilgewater meant that she and Rafen both knew how to disappear into a crowd when needed. 

A shared silent glance had them separate to flank a gaggle of men unloading a nearby merchant’s ship into one of the many brightly colored buildings scattered in the wharfside docks. She dipped into narrow spaces between the sea of people flooding into the Border Markets from the boisterous quaysides. Her red hair and lips drew more than a few sets of eyes and a whistle or two, but a frigid stare and a palm passed over Awe’s grip silenced them. She didn’t need to be standing out anymore than she already did in this  _ eccentric  _ place.

Rafen vanished behind the commotion of a trader clearly picking an outnumbered fight with a group of wardens who seemed to take exception to the man’s cargo. On instinct, she tuned in on the argument, but chose to disregard it, uninterested in listening close enough to translate the thick accent in which the man was shouting.

A brief gap in the crowds and blue eyes met Rafen’s gaze as he lingered on the heels of a group of Shuriman sailors at work. He tapped two fingers to his brow and lightly tossed his chin in a direction up ahead in an old recognized gesture: their quarry had come to a halt. Fortune dipped her head and moved to detour around the small building purporting to be a warden’s office in buzzing hextech lettering. She let her stride fall to a calmer, lazier pace as she meandered down the pier between the back of the building and the edge of the dock.

Fortune let herself slow another few steps before coming to a halt when she heard Caitlyn’s sharp accent around a corner. She leaned back against hewn stone and smooth timber, crossing one ankle over the other, and reached up to ash her cheroot, every bit the rogue captain sneaking an unsanctioned smoke break. 

“—linger around here. Authorized personnel only,” Caitlyn’s voice, distinctive as it was, carried between the shouts and whistles and ruckus of the piers, tinged with something that sounded like apology.

Fortune frowned, straining her ears a little more. The din was too much to figure out who she was talking to, or what that person was saying.

“We go through this on the daily,” Caitlyn groaned, imploring. “I can only help you out so much, and you’re pressing your luck making me come down here so often to escort you back to—”

Another pause. Fortune glanced up at the sun hanging low on the horizon.  _ Wrap it up, darling, burning daylight here. _ She almost missed Caitlyn’s resigned sigh.

“I know it’s not ideal, but it’s the best we can do right now,” she said. “Now, do I need to walk you back, or can I trust you to find your way out?” A shorter pause. “Excellent. And I’ll see again about...” Out of earshot. Fortune frowned but didn’t move for a moment, mulling over her smoke.

An obnoxious two-toned whistle had Fortune push off the wall with her shoulder, sauntering between the brick buildings again to slip back into the flow of traffic. She didn’t immediately have eyes on Caitlyn, but then Rafen was at her elbow again—her opposite elbow, she noticed with some amusement—and paying no visible attention to Fortune whatsoever.

“Piltover doesn’t usually send its sheriffs out for crowd control, does it?” Rafen asked the question to, seemingly, nobody in particular, muscling past her shoulder to stride a few steps ahead.

“Not to my knowledge.” Fortune kept her voice just low enough that he could hear her at his back. “Anyone we know?”

“ _ Watch it! _ ” he barked at a young sailor who brushed past him. The young man startled, eyes wide with inexperienced shock, and began mumbling apologies even as Rafen shook his head and continued pushing through the crowd.  _ Nope. _

Fortune bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smirking at Rafen’s blatant overacting. Having a discussion in broad daylight without eavesdroppers following along was truly a hassle, but doing so in a relatively law-abiding port like Piltover was still leagues easier than it was in Bilgewater.

“Damn street rats,” he growled, theoretically in insult to the lad he’d bumped into.

Fortune almost frowned in confusion before she caught herself, feigning irritation as she shoved in front of him. She stopped short in his path, scanning the pier from left to right. Rafen pushed past her left shoulder with a vicious curse and kept walking. She threw a rude gesture after him before altering her course to the left as well.

They broke through the crowds on the wharf docks, moving in to flank the city streets. Rafen waited a moment for her to catch up before they both ducked into a side street.

“You’ve lost me, lass,” he commented, raising a brow. “Why are we chasing down the street kid? Caitlyn went straight down the road.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the much larger street the docks had opened into, bustling with evening traffic as shifts changed and revelers met for supper. Larger, better lit, and  _ cleaner, _ she noted as they continued down the cramped, dirty side street they’d turned down. A large, iridescent bug darted across her boot. She didn’t flinch.

“She gave me an inkling,” Fortune said, taking the lead once again. She cast a critical eye up at the empty street lamps in this corner of the city. Poorer sectors tended to be the same even at the heart of progress, she supposed.

“Aye?”

“Aye. D’you recall why we’ve had such a time with Barclay down in Rat Town?”

“Coin?”

“Coin.” She drew a silver serpent from her belt pouch, rolling it thoughtfully over her knuckles as they walked. “People will keep their fuckin’ traps shut about anything if you pay them enough. And Barclay’s got coin to spare.” She tossed him a coy smile over her shoulder, waggling the coin between her thumb and forefinger. “Remember when we were kids?  _ Genteel _ folk like him didn’t even wanna soil their boots on us, let alone their coin.”

“I like where this inkling is going,” Rafen said, a slow, cruel grin curving his lips up.

“Our favorite gal says he’s a pretty frequent visitor on the docks,” Fortune said, flipping the coin into the air. She caught it without looking. “Barclay’s money might be too good for us lowly street rats, but I do think he could do with the reminder that we outnumber him.” Her grin was vicious. “Let’s go catch a rat, shall we?”


	3. In Motion

Nami had come to the conclusion that a life lived entirely on the land had to be the reason that landwalkers seemed to be altogether out of their collective minds.

When you spent your entire life in the ocean, it was abundantly clear that you had very little control of anything outside of your own actions. You could spend your whole life playing everything safely, and then might  _ still _ be dragged into the gaping maw of a sea serpent, or swept down into the dark by a vicious rip current. Yet the peoples of the oversky still somehow thought themselves able to outwit  _ nature itself. _

It had been a harsh learning experience for the crew upon the ship she’d tried to flag down for help. They’d been so busy trying to capture her— _ yikes _ —that they’d either missed or flat-out ignored the massive storm that’d finally given Nami some distance from them. Perhaps they would be more observant in the future.

Then again, judging from the deep, harsh gouges in the sea floor where the humans had apparently  _ completely obliterated _ their own land to  _ build a false strait _ which they  _ didn’t even keep open _ ... Nami suspected that they would remain absolutely as foolish as they ever were.

Still, if there was some way to fight nature itself, it did seem to exist in this place, all polished glass and metal, glittering gold, silver, brass, the vibrant hum of machinery and the soft ticking of a perpetual sort of clock on which the city appeared to be operated. 

The city crept into darkness the way a sea monster breeches waves, which is to say the image of this glistening, boisterous merchant port city crashed into night in both a streamlined but altogether startling way. The hum of the city shifted, tall posts lining the cobblestone streets flaring to life with contained “fire”, oil on the docks burning iridescent beneath their glow. The shouts of the merchant culture from the day time trade now overwhelmed by the shouts of trade and work to prepare for the next morning, to prepare for journeys out of the city, workers flitting in and out of the shadows of sails and crates and the like. 

Nami would rather have preferred to experience her first oversky sunset, perhaps, on the  _ other  _ side of these… “Sun Gates,” however. Unfortunately, the uniformed man standing at said gates seemed determined not to let her pass. “Regulations,” he’d said in something of an apologetic tone, his face flushed and eyes darting for reasons she couldn’t begin to comprehend. “This gate is only intended for ocean traffic. Ships and the like. We don’t, er… There isn’t anything on the lawbooks about… lone travelers.”

Nami’s fist trembled with barely concealed annoyance on her staff, the white-knuckle grip all the more striking against her skin. That he wasn’t trying to capture or kill her for a change was a nice change of pace, but gods all damn it, these people of the oversky were damned obstinate. “I don’t think you appreciate the urgency of my situation,” she tried to explain,  _ again _ , her patience wearing thinner with each passing second. “That I get to Ionia to seek out the moon aspect is of utmost importance. My tribe will  _ not  _ be the only ones in danger should I fail this mission. The terrors from the deep  _ will  _ spread to the ends of this world—”

“Couldn’t you find a ship to take you through the Gates?” he half-pled, gesturing at the great looming wooden beasts in the harbor. “Then you could pass through unbothered. And if this danger is as urgent as you say—”

“It  _ is _ .”

“Sailors are a superstitious bunch,” he insisted. “Surely you could convince a captain to grant you passage.”

Nami huffed despite herself, the frills behind her jaws flaring with annoyance as she threw her free hand out in disbelief. “How much time do you think I  _ have? _ ”

His answer was cut off with a sound like thunder and shattering glass that made them both jolt. Two more followed in short order.

The explosions weren’t big, but they were bright and  _ loud _ , which was just enough mayhem to send people scattering with shouts of fear and to draw Nami’s attention. The man’s eyes widened, and he drew the curious weapon holstered at his hip.

“Send a tube to the district house,” he barked up to the next sentry at the gate, who scrambled to obey, “frag rounds on the docks! I’m en route!”

“What’s going o— _ hey! _ ” Nami bristled as the uniformed man broke into a sprint past her, fiddling with the weapon as he ran.

As she scoffed at his rude departure, she then noticed the flickering light, great tongues of landwalkers’ “fire” on the horizon in the direction he was running.

Well. If she knew nothing else, Nami knew that she could help smother it out again. Maybe someone would finally give her some damn help, then.

She vanished back into the dark waters of the port, darting easily through the shallows till another explosive churned the waters ahead of her, bubbles of blood mixing into the water with it. Nami startled, swiping her staff around before her on instinct, and the sea slid protectively around her, shoving her back onto the land and dropping bits of glass and splinters of wood harmlessly onto the docks.

The sea managed to spit her out directly into the midst of the chaotic din she’d seen from the gates.

The large flames she had seen before roared to life briefly each time a new explosion shook the area.

The active fires were small still, contained, not out of control yet for all the ocean spray protecting most of the docks. 

The racket was deafening. Men shouted orders and warnings and threats to each other with far more tongues and accents than Nami could ever hope to comprehend, interspersed with devastatingly loud rapport every few seconds as wood and cobblestone blasted to pieces with the force of the weapons they brandished. The air was thick with the acrid stench of smoke and blood. 

Nami was scarcely given time to make sense of the violent cacophony before her, as one of the men in the dispute accidentally made eye contact with her—his eyes bulged in recognition, and he drew the battered, rusted sword from his hip. “I FOUND THE GIRL!” he barked over his shoulder.

_ Uh-oh. _

Nami grasped her staff in both hands, preparing to swipe him over the side of the deck as soon as he charged her, when the back of his thigh disintegrated in a splatter of blood. He toppled, gasping in agony, sword skittering, and then there was a woman behind him and—oh.

Oh, this was a  _ pretty _ human, too, all vibrant reds and blues and rugged muscle visible even through the layers of cloth that clung to her form.

“Idiot,” this new woman snorted, shoving him off the dock with her boot, into the water below without a second glance. When she looked over to her, Nami was struck by the impossibly bright blue of her eyes, lighter and clearer than even the shallows of the ocean, burning with something she couldn’t place in the light of the flames around her. The woman’s lips twisted in a small, perplexed frown as she gazed at Nami in kind. “...What are you supposed t—” Her eyes flickered and widened sharply. “ _ Get down! _ ”

She was faster than Nami realized as she lunged at her: before she could even react, Nami was yanked full across the path and pressed bodily against the polished stone of the nearest building. In the place she’d been standing cobblestones shattered in a violent spray of dust and grit. Nami yelped at the sudden closeness of the woman, bracing her own hands against her broad shoulders as she fired four ear-splitting shots around the corner, her free hand thrown across Nami’s chest—

Her peculiar savior realized the faux pas at the same time Nami did, and while her face didn’t pink quite as hard as Nami’s cheeks burned, she still looked suitably mortified as they jerked back from one another. “Er. Excuse me,” she muttered, adjusting her cap and pushing Nami further behind the building, hand very carefully touching  _ only  _ her shoulder. Then, with a frown, she straightened up again, bewildered. “What, they really just let you run around like this?” she demanded, gesturing vaguely at Nami.

Nami didn’t even have the chance to ask who “they” even referred to before part of the artfully-carved corner of the building splintered into fragments, a particularly sharp chunk of stone slicing the woman across the cheek. She hissed, touching two fingers to the wound, frowning at the blood that dripped freely down her face, just a shade lighter than her hair.

“Fucker,” she muttered with an exaggerated roll of the eyes. Nami didn’t quite recognize the word, but given the tone accepted it as profane. “Your reaction time’s as shite as your aim, lad!” she barked around the corner.

The woman deftly manipulated the peculiar mechanisms on her weapons with her thumbs, giving a piercing three-note whistle into the smoky air. An echo came in reply; she simply nodded to herself and leveled one at the corner.

The man who appeared a second later with blade drawn went down in a mist of blood and smoke.

Nami’s stomach twisted as the woman turned to face her again, seemingly unbothered by the gore as she slid the weapon into the tooled leather holster at her hip, one that matched the other on her opposite hip, holding an assuredly, equally deadly weapon “I’m guessing you’re the Vastayan girl Barclay’s all worked up over, then,” she drawled in that curious accent, offering Nami a wry grin.

She recognized that name. That was the leader of the landwalkers trying to take the abyssal pearl, she was pretty sure. “I—yes, I suppose that’s...” She trailed off, focusing on the still-bleeding scratch on the woman’s face. “You’re hurt.” It didn’t seem fair that the first person to actually be remotely helpful to Nami’s quest had been injured for it.

The woman waved it off. “It’s just a scratch,” she said at the same moment that Nami insisted “Let me.” She stilled in surprise when Nami’s fingers brushed her cheek, gently stroking over the tiny wound. A tiny mote of water glimmered at her fingertips, carefully trailing over the minute wound as it stitched itself up.

The woman blinked twice before frowning, countenance dark with yet another expression Nami couldn’t place. Her hand caught Nami by the wrist as she went to withdraw, grip firm but not painfully so. “Careful with magic, lass,” she warned. “Might get yourself in trouble throwing it around like that.”

Nami’s brows rose in disbelief. “Are—are you threatening me?” she cautioned, a little insulted by the concept.

“After you healed me? No, that’d be rude. Though I will say it wasn’t necessary for just a scratch.” She grinned, open and honest. Her grip gentled, and she took Nami’s hand in her own, pumping it once. Her hands were so much warmer than Nami’s, she noticed, fascinated. “Sarah Fortune.”

It took Nami a long moment to recognize that as an introduction. “Oh—my name is Nami,” she answered, giving the hand in her grip a bemused pump in return. A flash of coral pink at Sarah’s throat caught Nami’s gaze. Her eyes widened in recognition at the talisman tied about her neck. It was an old,  _ old  _ symbol, but Nami would recognize a sign of the Mother Serpent anywhere. Any Marai would.  _ Sailors are a superstitious lot, _ that man had said, and if this one was so much so that she wore the Serpent’s sign on her throat… Nami began to speak hastily, eager: “I wonder if you c—”

“Cheers, then, Nami.” Sarah released her and turned, stepping over the bloodied corpse at her feet as she darted down the road in pursuit of this man Barclay.

“Wait—” Nami sucked through her teeth, irked, as Sarah vaulted easily over a low crate and vanished around another corner. Were all landwalkers so flighty? She hoped not.

Nami turned her staff in her grip and surged forward after her.


End file.
